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Westcombe Beach
Hill fields of runnelled emerald
Grab the lopsided legs of cows.
Slate slabs are plaster
Slapped onto cliffs,
Or sheered off
Into dolmens.
The sea's saliva
Gushes into rocky gullets,
Strews pebbles like pieces
Of a broken jigsaw.
Quartz scored across grey slate
Shows where history starts
And where it ceases.
Climbing the cliff path
Cowslip, dandelion, thistle,
Grass over sandals,
Silver strips on the torquoise sea,
Breathing in the sun, the now,
The in-it-ness of what is lost
Just as it is perceived.
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